


Proof by Contradiction

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three lies that Emma didn't catch, and two truths that she couldn't let go.</p>
<p>Spoilers through 4x04, "Bella Notte."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof by Contradiction

_This doesn't mean anything._

It's the first thought in her head (when she _can_ think again), her ragged breath mingling with Hook's, hotter and thicker than the jungle steaming around them. He's still pressed against her, too close (in more ways than one, he just keeps getting _too close_ ), and it takes her own voice to snap her back into awareness, to make her let go of his collar and push herself back. 

It was a dare, a challenge, a whim. A one-time thing. 

_It was just a kiss_ , she'll say to him in the Echo Cave, and it cannot be anything more than confusion that's making her voice flat, harsh. _How's that your darkest secret?_ she asks in disbelief, because seriously, how could centuries of being a _pirate_ not hold anything more terrible than that?

How can kissing her be _that_ important, to _anyone_?

The dusty air in her mouth tastes like desperation, but then, so does this whole damn island. 

His secret is his business, though, not hers. And whatever he thinks he's feeling doesn't, _can't_ , matter, not when they still have to get Henry back.

* * *

_This doesn't count._

It's a tiny, hysterical thought in between the parts of her that are damning Zelena for being a manipulative evil bitch and the parts that are damning Hook for _not breathing, he's not breathing oh god please_.

It doesn't count, not even a little bit.

Because he tried to take Henry away without telling her, and he didn't warn her he'd been cursed, and he's been hiding something about the past year, and he won't stop _pushing_ her to stay in this treacherous fucking town that keeps trying to kill everyone she--

But even if he's an _ass_ she can't let him _die_ for it, and so she does the one thing she _just_ said that she wouldn't, Zelena trying to make a liar of her in less than a minute.

It still doesn't count, though, because it wasn't a kiss. Even if she's clinging to his coat in a way that's too familiar; even if she can't breathe until he does.

* * *

_This isn't real._

That's a lot of what makes it so fun, playing the eager barfly entranced by the infamous Captain Hook. It's _not real_ , so she can stare too long into his eyes, memorize the lines of his face, trace the lean muscle under those leather pants with her palm. She can let him charm her, laugh with him, tease him; she can flirt with him as if she _means_ it. 

It's all make-believe, a means to an end, and commandeering the attention of a gorgeous man isn't anywhere near the worst thing she's ever had to do.

Maybe that's what keeps her from realizing that her plan was only half-assed at best. "Make sure that he remains occupied." She does that, all right, and way too well; she's supposed to keep him away from his ship, and instead makes him intent on taking her there.

Oops.

And so she ends up kissing him again--and it's _good_ , even drunk as he is. He's lascivious and eager, but not in a bad way, and she's enjoying the way he's just _captivated_ by her; it feels good to be so blatantly _wanted_.

But it's _not real_ , and so she can't possibly regret it when it comes to an end, when Hook punches him(self?) out. She's surprised, that's all; shocked at the sudden, violent change of pace. 

She's certainly not missing the way the rum tasted on his tongue, or how his body warmed her against the chill of the evening breeze.

* * *

_This isn't fair._

He's just given her the most toe-curlingly amazing kiss of her _life_ , and yet she can't follow up on it. 

She can feel the effects through her whole body--her breath is unsteady, her stomach does a lazy roll at the look in his eyes, and she has no idea what to do with her _hands_ that doesn't involve hauling him inside and completely violating her _no plundering on the first date_ rule. 

(Which has seriously only been in effect for less than a day, and it was more about taking the pressure off herself than anything else. She was a walking bundle of nerves that didn't subside until he laced his fingers with hers, reminding her of warmth and comfort and steadiness, and she remembered that it was just him, just _them_ , under the clothes and candlelight, nothing to fear here.)

But there are way too many people in her parents' apartment (meaning any number greater than "zero"), and they've waited _so long_ for each other, and she feels like the teenager her parents are treating her as, but it's _just. not. fair._

She wants to be able invite him in for coffee and let the water boil away on the stove because they're too busy kissing each other to care. 

She wants to give him the tour that only involves as many steps as it takes to make it to the bed, scatter those new clothes of his across her furniture, show him that he's not the only one who can plan an evening.

She wants to wake up in the morning, repurpose those abandoned coffee mugs, grin shyly at each other over hot cocoa, kiss a smudge of whipped cream from the corner of his lips.

Hell, she even wants to do stupid things with him like fold laundry and argue about how to squeeze the toothpaste tube, and she's _never_ wanted anything like that before, not with _anyone_.

Her head is so full of _want_ that she doesn't even notice her parents waiting up for her ( _just_ like she's a teenager) until they speak up. She makes her way up the stairs, careful in her heels, and thinks she might ask him to help out with the apartment hunt.

If he's going to be spending time there--and he will, if she has any say in it--it's only fair that she picks one he likes.

* * *

_This isn't right._

He's told her everything, in broken words and shattered voice, the deal he made with Gold, the things he did to uphold it. She's hurt, yes, and disappointed, but it's nothing compared to the pain in his eyes, and she gets it, she knows, what it's like to try so hard and still screw up, and to have to pick up the pieces afterwards anyway.

She's got a lot of practice with that, though, and she's happy to help out.

But when she reaches for him, something still isn't right. He flinches, just a little, holding himself out of reach. But she's done with that, she's done with keeping distance between them, because they're _better_ when they're with each other, and she's finally come to terms with that.

(It's not weakness. It's _strength_.)

So she steps right in, taking his hand, sees his fingers jerk like he wants to pull away, but can't bring himself to. She lays her palm against his cheek, watches him swallow, misery lining his face. "Tell me," she says, soft and determined. "I'm not going anywhere."

And he crumbles.

It all comes pouring out: that his redemption is a lie, that he's no better a man than he ever was, that he doesn't deserve her attention, let alone her company. She lets him purge those poisonous thoughts, and when a tear slips down her face at the agony he's been putting himself through (god, he must have felt _so alone_ ), he stops, stricken, and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he says, his own voice choked. "I'm sorry I can't be the man you should be with. And I'm sorry that I'm not strong enough to give you up, when you deserve so much more."

It _aches_ , knowing that this depth of pain is what's seemed so wrong about him lately--and that _he's_ been so wrong, about everything. The tears flowing freely now, she yanks him into a fierce hug.

"Shut up," she whispers, her voice shaking. "Just shut up. You think I want perfect? I wouldn't know what to do with perfect. I never asked for that, Killian." 

He tucks his chin against her shoulder. She can feel an answering dampness on her neck. 

Cupping the back of his head, she presses a kiss below his ear. "All I want is _you_. All I ask is that you _keep trying_." 

She pulls back, just enough that he can see her face, read the truth in her eyes. "All I need is the man who never gives up." She nods to him, tightening her hand on his, lacing their fingers together. "And you _are_ a good man. Trust me, I've known enough bad ones." 

She kisses him, tasting the salt of their mingled tears. She keeps her lips gentle, undemanding, until he gives a strangled sob and kisses her back, sadness and regret and relief and need chasing each other in endless circles. 

"It's okay," she whispers, when they break apart. "It's okay." She brushes away his tear-tracks with the backs of her fingers, one-handed, because she won't let go of his. She's holding on so hard that his rings are biting into her fingers, but she doesn't care, because it's more important to let him know that she is _not_ planning to let him go. 

"Besides," she says, and smiles at him, a little watery, and he echoes it faintly back at her. "You and me, we're fighters. We're gonna fix this together, okay?" She brushes his messy hair back, smoothes two fingers over the scar on his cheek. "Together, you and me. Just like always." 

"You never cease to amaze me," he murmurs, and brings their linked hands up to stroke her cheek. There's a light in his eyes again, something that looks a lot like hope, something she's been missing in him. 

It's not all right, not yet, but now she knows that it's going to be. 


End file.
